Eye Spy

by Jenna Mattison

  I shake my head in mock disgust. “Bally what? Who talks like that? Where are we going anyway?”

  “You’ll see.”

  As he pulls me out the door, I notice that I have a ticket for parking in the red zone. I crumple it up and defiantly toss it onto the rubber floor mat.

  “You might want to invest in a pair of shoes,” Jack states, glancing down at my bare feet.

  Wow, I really have been numb.

  I grab a spare pair of tennies from the trunk and plop myself down on the bumper. As I lace up my sneakers, I notice a silver dollar-sized grease stain on my dress. I guess I have to go to the house at some point to grab some clothes. The thought pokes me with a pang of sadness. I’m not ready to see Bernie yet, and heck, I’d rather buy some new stuff anyway. I should put those credit cards to good use while I still can. I’ll go on a big fat shopping spree tomorrow. But for now I’m going to play detective and forget all about Bernie and his cheating white ass.

  28

  Jack tried to finagle his way into driving my car, but I was having none of it. So ever since we left the shop, in true petty form, he’s been taking great joy in bossing me on the pretense of giving directions.

  He’s brought us to one of those upper crusty neighborhoods within comfortable commuting distance to the city that seem to be so abundant in Massachusetts. You know the kind, where all the houses look like pillared estates behind perfectly manicured hedges set on a couple of acres of land. The type of place Bernie was aspiring to.

  “Turn into this little shop here.”

  “This place? Why? Are we stopping for pâté? Can you please tell me what we are doing in Snooty Ville when we should be looking for the shooter who’s probably planning another attack as we speak?”

  Jack smirks and holds up the bottle that was thrown through the Eye Spy window bearing the cryptic note. “Watch and learn, doll face. ”

  The market is painted a deep burgundy and the walls look like they’ve been strategically textured to look aged. A wood cart sits by the large plate-glass window, filled to the brim with a large assortment of fresh flowers and my favorite stargazer lilies. They fill the room with a delightful clean scent. There are rows of the types of goods one would expect to find in any pantry or Sub-Zero in this neighborhood. Foe gras, truffles, and impossibly expensive olive oil line the shelves. And of course it wouldn’t be complete without a pretty young girl behind the register posing like a prom queen.

  Jack struts up to the counter and strikes up a conversation with the fresh-faced clerk. I’m supposed to stay within earshot, but not make like we’re together, so I’m pretending to browse.

  Parella’s in charming mode, he’s put on his most dazzling smile, which annoyingly, happens to be pretty freakin’ dazzling.

  “Jessica, right?”

  The cashier blushes and smiles coyly, delighted at Jack’s attentions.

  “Um…yeah. Do I know you?” she asks, scrunching her face quizzically.

  “I’m Remington Steele. I called earlier about the Swenson’s sodas,” he says, dangling the empty bottle.

  I let out a snort at the ridiculous pseudonym and Parella shoots me a sharp look.

  “Oh, yeah, right...did you want to order some? ’Cause like I said, this is the only place you can order them and I could totally take care of that for you.” She gives Jack a flirtatious look and bats her lashes.

  “Yes, Jess…can I call you Jess? You mentioned that on the phone. Only store in the Tri-state area that carries this type of cream soda, as a matter of fact, isn’t that right?”

  Jessica lets out a smitten giggle. Parella gives me a self-satisfied smirk and carries on the shameless flirting.

  Man whore.

  “But actually, Jess, I don’t want to order any, I just need to know who does.”

  The prom queen looks confused and nervous. “Umm, I’m sorry, Mr. Steele, but I don’t think I can do that.”

  Parella leans in and locks eyes with her. “Please, call me Remy. Jess, I’ve gotta level with you. You hold the key to a very important investigation. This information could save someone’s life,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper to lend just the right effect.

  Her pretty blue eyes go wide. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well, gosh. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt on account of me.”

  He leans in closer. “I knew you’d make the right decision.” Parella looks deep into her eyes as she parts her lips seductively, licking them.

  Oh, brother.

  I can’t take anymore. All this flagrant flirtation is making me want to puke. I exit the shop and head to the car where I can daydream about custard filleds while Jack finishes up his fishing expedition.

  29

  I study the façade of the building while I wait for Jack who is no doubt inside charming the pants off the girl behind the counter. It somehow reminds me of the storefronts in downtown Savannah. Something about the quaint striped awnings, the slate roof, and the antique brick gives it a Southern charm that’s unusual for this part of the world.

  After a few minutes Jack struts out of the green louvered shop door, smugly waving a small piece of paper. I roll my eyes as he swiftly crams himself into the passenger seat.

  “The spoils of victory, Mr. Steele?”

  “That’s right. Did you learn anything?”

  “Uh, yeah. That you’ll whore yourself out for information.”

  “Well, one does what one must, doll face.”

  It seems my new nicknames consist of “doll” and “doll face.” For some reason, I kind of like it.

  I fire up the engine, do a three point turn in the parking lot, and head for Jack’s place. “Okay, whatever, now what?”

  “Tomorrow we go undercover, hit the houses on the list, and try to come up with some more clues to bust this case wide open.”

  A small grin escapes. “Undercover? Cool. But I need to do a little shopping tomorrow too.”

  Parella shoots me a look.

  “Right, okay, undercover it is. Shopping spree postponed. Hey, I’ve got to come up with a really cool spy name,” I say with a goofy grin.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I contemplate possible clandestine identities then veer onto names I could use if I was ever struck by lightning or a meteorite and became burdened with super powers. We go for a long stretch without talking (which I’ve always thought was under rated). Anyone you can just be quiet with definitely belongs in your life. I saw a movie once where a guy told a girl that being with her was like being alone. She was insulted, but I thought it was sweet, the best kind of compliment.

  As we approach Eye Spy I suddenly realize that I have no idea where I’m going to go afterwards. I pick at the steering wheel absentmindedly, unraveling the crisscrossed seams along one side. Where am I going to stay for the next few days until I’m ready to deal with Bernie? I can’t face the girls yet, and I really can’t stomach a lonely, sterile hotel room right now.

  It seems Parella’s reads my mind as he states matter of factly, “You know you can stay at my place till you get things sorted.”

  My heart starts thumping. Hard. “Ummm…don’t you have just the one bed in the middle of the living room?”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Crap. This could be dangerous. Me and Parella sleeping in a room together sounds like a recipe for trouble with a capital T.

  I resume unraveling the stitching on the steering column as I speculate whether Jack can actually hear my heart pounding or if it’s only audible inside my head. “Umm…I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable…and I absolutely would not feel right about sleeping in your bed...I mean…umm…you know what I mean.”

  Parella watches me squirm with relish. “Probably for the best, since I sleep in the nude.”

  Gulp. My stomach does acrobatics.

  “Well, I do have a small room in the shop. It’s only got a fold-out, but there’s a bathroom. It’s not half bad. I’ve
napped down there a bunch of times.”

  Well, it’s either that or call one of the girls, which would mean I’d have to explain what happened, which I want to do about as much as I want to eat pooh (which is not what I want at all, just to clarify).

  “Okay, yeah, I think that’ll work.” I shrug noncommittally.

  “Great, and if you get lonesome you can always crawl into bed with me upstairs.”

  I give Jack a slug in the arm.

  “Resorting to petty violence now, aye? Look who’s getting comfortable.”

  You know he’s right, I do feel comfortable with him (when he’s not talking about being nude that is). It’s weird, even after ten years, I still felt like I was walking on eggshells with Bernie. He just always seemed on edge, or like he didn’t approve of me. Well, except for that year we moved in together off campus. He was my best friend back then. Late night grilled cheeses and bubble baths for two. We’ve really drifted apart. It suddenly becomes so clear. And in a weird sort of way, I can understand him wanting that with someone else—not that I’m okay with him boinking the barely legal receptionist—but I can see now how much our relationship was truly in trouble. I suddenly get a mental image of Bernie’s white ass mid-thrust on the exam table and shudder.

  “Uhh, Liza, you okay?” Silence.“Earth to Liza.

  “Umm, yeah. Why?”

  “Cause we’ve been sittin’ at this stop sign for well over a minute.”

  “Right, sorry. Just spaced, I guess.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze, and leaves it there. The weight of it feels comforting in a way that only a non-verbal gesture can. It feels nice. Probably nicer than it should.

  30

  We pull into a garage about four blocks over, then amble up to the fourth floor and park, only to find the elevator out of order.

  Good times.

  The fluorescent tube lights that line the concrete ceilings of the structure give the place a sickly green hue as we totter down the endless ramps to the exit on West Street. I’m out of breath once we arrive at Jack’s building and opt for the freight elevator. He bounds up stairs two by two. Show off.

  By the time I’m out of the elevator and manage to shut the two sets of giant metal doors, Jack’s at the kitchen island and the smell of freshly peeled garlic wafts through air. A girl could sure get used to this.

  “Need any help?” I offer, as any good guest should do, as I butt up to the counter and watch him finish peeling the clove.

  “Yeah, sure. Wanna chop the onions?”

  Dammit. I didn’t think he’d actually take me up on it. I was just being polite.

  “Okay, I’m chopping onions,” I say, pushing up the arms of my dress. I’m not exactly Julia Child, but it’s an onion. How challenging could it be?

  I mosey towards the wrought-iron basket hanging near the kitchen window and grab a medium-sized onion as Jack inserts George Winston’s December CD into the stereo. The walls fill with the sound of twinkling piano keys reminiscent of Christmas somehow. Probably because Daddy used to play “Green sleeves” on Christmas Eve after dinner, which always consisted of the traditional ham and turkey combo with all the trimmings. And of course it was never complete without Mamma’s famous walnut pie, which was made from the green-husked nuts my sister Becky and I would collect from the twin trees every fall. I guess I lucked out in the childhood department. I can conjure up all sorts of warm fuzzy memories.

  My thoughts trail back to the notes. As odd as it may seem, hunting my psycho stalker is a welcome distraction from my shattered marriage. Maybe we’ve overlooked something in the notes, some other clue. Maybe we can find the stationary shop that sells that fancy paper. Nah. Seems like a dead end. But something about that “brotherly love” line sticks in my mind.

  I seem to have peeled the onion down to half its size. Grabbing a plate from the cupboard and a big butcher knife, I attempt to split the onion in half. It dodges my advances and rolls around the plate mocking me.

  Jack shoots me an amused look as he finishes lighting some chunky, square candles on the mantle with no fireplace inside. It’s painted a deep eggplant color that looks almost black in the dim light.

  “Liza, you have done this before, right?” He crosses the room towards me to inspect the debacle.

  “Oh, yeah. Tons of times.”

  He pulls out a wooden chopping board and a small knife and grabs the onion. “Here, let me start it for you.” He swiftly cuts the onion into four perfect pieces then hands me the knife, giving me a smile that doesn’t make me feel the least bit stupid for not knowing how to perform such a simple task.

  “Grilled cheese has always been my specialty…well, that and half-boiled eggs with soldiers. Neither of which require much chopping.”

  He gives me that smile again. “What are soldiers?”

  I let out a snort realizing that of course he would have no idea what soldiers are because they were Daddy’s Sunday breakfast invention. “Well, you take a piece of white bread and butter both sides, then fry it in a pan. Then you cut the bread into strips that you dip into the half -boiled eggs.” Jack gazes at me like a puppy dog and I feel my face flush.

  “Well, Liza Radley that may be the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Well, then, I’ll make them for you sometime,” I blurt reflexively.

  We lock eyes for a moment and it dawns on me that this is quite a cozy little scene. I get a strong urge to kiss him, but go back to chopping my onions instead (which I’m doing a pretty decent job of, I must say).

  Jack says under his breath, “So would that be before or after the sex? ’Cause I do love me a good post-coital, half-boiled egg.”

  I elbow him in the rib. “Jackass.”

  My cell phone chimes from across the room. I stop the chopping to turn it off. The ring is one of those annoying stock ones that came with the phone that I can’t figure out how to change. It sounds like a five alarm fire. I check the caller ID. It’s Bernie’s cell. I feel a sharp pain in my heart that makes me wince.

  I turn the phone on vibrate and return to my task as Jack puts the finishing touches on some red sauce. He shoots me a sidelong glance and I realize that it probably looks like I’m weepy.“I’m not crying or anything, it’s just the onions.”

  “Well, nobody here would think any less of you if you were. You’ve had a big day. Plus you dames like any excuse to get all weepy anyway,” he says softly, as if to give me the option.

  And just like that, my lower lip twitches and quivers and the floodgates open.

  Now it’s definite.

  I’m bawling. I guess in a weird sort of way I just needed permission to feel sad, and ugly, and stupid, and all the other kicked-in-the-teeth feelings that go along with being cheated on.

  Jack turns down the stove and closes the gap between us. He does the hand on the shoulder thing for a bit. Then as I continue the waterworks (with no end in sight), he scoops me up in his arms and sits us down on the couch, setting me on his lap. We sink down into the cushions and I curl up against him, my face buried between his neck and the collar of his shirt, willing the tears to stop. I don’t care that I’m getting his T-shirt damp with tears. I feel really safe. As if I can do anything right now and it would be okay, and that’s not a feeling I’ve had for a really long time.

  Jack allows me to blubber and sniffle undisturbed for another few minutes until I get to the point of numbness. No more tears left. He gently sets me on the sofa and makes his way back towards the kitchen where a pot sounds as if it’s reached a boil.

  I burrow deeper into the corduroy cushions and I’m poked with a feather as I pull a pillow over my head. I feel drained so I succumb, dozing into a fitful sleep…

  31

  Okay, I changed my mind. There’s nothing like waking to the aroma of homemade pasta sauce. Bacon’s nice and everything but the tangy tomato smell is down right intoxicating.

  “Look who’s awake.”

  “Mmmm. T
hat smells yumms.”

  “Well, I hope it tastes yumms ’cause I was out of a couple things.” He dips the wooden spoon into the pot as I reach the counter. “Here, try it.”

  I lean in and take a taste. “Wow. That might be the best sauce I’ve ever had.”

  “Hey, you’re not gonna go all weepy on me again, are ya?”

  I shoot him a disgusted look. “You’re all heart, Parella. All heart.”

  “Now hurry up and set the table so we can eat.”

  “Okay, bossy boots.” I grab the old fashioned plates on the second shelf of the kitchen cabinets. “These okay?”

  He eyes my choice of dinnerware quizzically and replies, “Sure,” as he opens a bottle of red wine.

  I should pass on the spirits. I want to keep my wits about me. I don’t want do anything that might be really, really fun while doing it, but that I’ll regret terribly in the morning.

  I inhale my garlic bread in two swift bites and launch into my pasta. This guy is kind of like a super hero. He can do everything. The marinara is spicy and sprinkled generously with red pepper flakes. Perfectly al dente pasta dangles from my fork and the shavings of aged Parmesan add just the right sharp flavor as I take another bite.

  “This is really good,” I say, mouth full. Which I’m certain makes me downright irresistible.

  “It’s a family recipe. In Italian families we call this gravy.”

  I shovel in some more spaghetti, barely managing a grunt of acknowledgement.

  “Why’d you pick these plates?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Because they’re pretty, I guess. They just feel like home.”

  “They were Nana’s…my grandmother’s.”

  “Well, she had really good taste,” I say, studying the country winter scene etched onto the scalloped edge dish in rustic fall colors that peek through the remnants of pasta sauce.

  We spend the remainder of the meal in silence. I stare down at the aged wood table, which looks as if it’s been weathered in a series of torrential storms, and then shellacked to preserve its beaten appearance. It feels solid and substantial. Just like everything else in this place. Including Jack.